Folkloric Specification Outline.

 

There's an unusually wide stretch between where I left my Mohican venatar and the ancestral levitation points upon which our lythrex is placed for maximal credulity. They will shave time off their bruising shift only if I agree to position the second wand in the place where instructional mansards fear to plead. It's a matter of all the holes in a deck being infinitesimally punctured with suitable fronds from an Ivy League traitors' pit. After which only three of us will no longer be tempted to extract a pulsinary car patch from the rear-facing Choctaw of Loudon's tainted bulge. Even the name, with its characteristic pattern of 'uhs' and 'ahs', is slated to induce your final cooperation with our District Chiding Bomb. Just don't tell our kids that we've left the house in the hands of rubber-stamp do-gooders with an agenda in the single threes. The littlest one is, quite frankly, bored with our needle-print embezzlement scenes. Who can blame her? It's not like she hasn't been trained to pretend to not breathe for one out every sixty-one seconds flat. Almonds are an environmental disaster. Why do you ask? I know.

When coming to in a strange house, garage, elevator, convenience mart, office segment or ball field, it might make the most sense if you demand an immediate apology. If no one offers to help set up a crowdfunding campaign, you could follow my lead and get the current figures from a delicious operator. In the event that one isn't handy, could you even CONSIDER imitating an invisible animal and then take emergency steps to remove all straps from sensitive faphangers the world over? It says right here in my Champeen Book that a fluffy noodling motion, applied at roughly six-month intervals, could secure you a place in a very secretive floating dyad without the husband ever waffling on his initial statement. And, you know what? I have a not-so-funny feeling that goes double for the dingbat of the house. Just please don't get me started. I might have a coronary. You started it. I'm serious.

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Does This Constitute Evidence?

 

The woman who received my sample via the US Postal Service has expressed to me not a little consternation about what seems to be an ongoing campaign of contamination. I've tried on numerous occasions to console her while simultaneously placing her vehicle in an anonymous receivership for which the only remedy is a one-on-one pro-comp with one of our more outspoken doomsayers. To call him 'verbose' wouldn't be wrong by half, if that. In fact, when you get right down to it, it seems that he's just 'wired wrong' in all the ways which will count toward his eventual release. By which time I will have already packed my bags for fonder pastures. No one ever seems to count the grooves, even when unvisited shafts come to the fore, shrinkage or not.

So, we met at a coffee shop here in town. She brought with her a measly selection of self-selected treats, all the while making like she was doing me a favor. I took it in stride but couldn't help myself when it came to pointing out where her bread was buttered and exactly who would end up being the butt of all the puerile insinuations swirling about us like a headwind buffeting an extirpated stipend. She removed a framed photo of an old flame from the folds of her ample bosom and proceeded to go into an extended song and dance as to the provenance of said photo and why I should care in the first place. Only years later, when I eventually took her maladaptive brother under my wing did the truth finally reveal itself. I felt no shame in scoffing, but at the same time I knew that one day soon, a person on the verge of a nervous breakdown would enter my life as if from nowhere and that nothing would ever be the same.

There is a paper about the same size and shape as her head which, rumor has it, contains important clues to the ultimate disposition of an ongoing inquiry. This paper is said to exist in multiple forged versions, the only genuine article having taken form as a classified ad in the Chicago Tribune from August 12, 2011. I was presented with a copy of that very edition during a rough patch I experienced while seeking closure for an unprovoked attack on my motives, character, appearance and overall rectitude. When I say that I didn't find anything remotely amusing about the way he shoved me into a lamp post while I struggled to get my footing in foreign terrain, I don't for one minute think that my account will raise any sort of red flag at all. In fact, were I a betting man (and I'm not, just to be clear), I wouldn't find it at all difficult to force some lesser prelates into an improvised clearing and have my way with their paltry duffel bags. It takes one to know one, but this time I've got the goods on all their sorry asses and there's not a goddamned thing they can do about it! Is this getting through? If not, I can wait in the car until you get a reading.

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Timely Advice for Reluctant Hemophobes.

 

If ever one of your recently deposed siblings enters a dwelling in a neighboring state, intent on pushing his or her luck into unexhumed territory, you might think about following up with our corporate wing to see what arrangements can be made. One of the saddest times in anyone's life is when they find a rickety contract nurse concealed within a passage adjacent to a terrifyingly tempting package. In the event that a person of limited means is accused of 'going through the motions', you can send them my way for some genuine faux-fatherly advice. We could even go on a lunch date down below as long as someone gives us a heads-up about ongoing deficiency nightmares. The dupe of our local Parsonage is likeable enough, as long as you can get around the way he positions himself on your typical workday morning/afternoon. Yes, you heard me right: I need everything there is to see which contorts a little-used Army flood.

Only one so shy as to comment out of turn during a Bakersfield, CA labor dispute can be relied upon to file fictitious ghost accounts with the Hazelton, PA Numismatic Society. I myself once instructed such an individual and found the experience less than satisfying, to say the least. On the other hand, what would you have me do if something I once tried on was roundly panned by a person of great influence over Statewide arts funding? They'll go with you to see a bridge being demolished but they can't spare the time it takes to enumerate all the benefits of premature hold-ownershit. Whenever I see them exiting a cocktail party with their hands forcibly restricted, then I'll know that we've turned a major corner when it comes to interpersonal threat folderol. You might want to think about establishing a scholarship fund for returnees from the Eastern Theater. It may also be a good idea to wipe the God-forsaken smirk off of what passes for that 'face' of yours. Just sayin'....

At first light, I buffed her balm and then headed in a general direction. She had repeatedly warned my handlers not to investigate my reliance on over-the-counter calory counters. It seems that I'd stepped on a few toes and had the receipts to prove it. What she didn't know then, and he most definitely knows now, is how sad we all felt upon completion of our final mortuary signpost. It marked the beginning of a new chapter of our failure to accede to a Hidden Power. In case you'd like a clue, it rhymes with a little used entrainment format in our National Blood Guild Convention. They could've seen it from miles away. Instead, they sat with their hands folded primly looking for all the world like Earth's most recalcitrant Punk ensemble. If I went on to elaborate the properties of their primeval goo, you'd feel obligated to nominate my dimpetologist for the Forerunner of the Decade Award. But I will say this: he doesn't take kindly to the way you 'do up' the widdle dollies in your Masterpiece Collection. He says it just doesn't fit with your overall fashion imperative. And, you know what? I'm inclined to agree, as much as it goes against every bone in my fiber. What?

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Family Comes First.

 

My family and I have always made it a priority to take great care as we walk through the seventy-one pre-nescient fields which border our proximity to a vastly overblown urban conglomerate. This is what allows us to extoll great fear in situations where the discomfort level is mild, if that. Our son, Harvey Jr. will spend isolated moments slicking back his hair before making his exit for a single-file affair. The Regents have expressed concern that he might talk out of class, even as his chance to outwit a community enemy takes a beating on the open market of transparently false option-huggers. Their odor generally precedes them by a mile or more, and by the time Little Harvey has scraped his shield clean off a local roof, a steel-dyed zinc marker is apt to be placed directly in his line of sight. Even if no one of consequence shows up at our annual buffet, some lucky numbnuts could be looking at a major two-figure settlement. And, that's before we add in the taped vespers, with all that implies.

I think I might just stand there in my chapel tunic and call out one or two names which have appeared erroneously in my lockbox back at the ranch. She will testify that I balefully restricted myself to staring directly, and with zero provocation, at her somewhat ordinary feet. Further, she will be tasked with finding a rental property near an impassable pond in the Southern New Hampshire exclusion zone. There I will present to her surviving relatives a reflective bauble which was hand-crafted during an Estonian prison riot in the late 1950s. As we near the completion of the preliminaries, I'll beg off any additional involvement so that I might spend more time looking into secret agreements among disaffected family members of former Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor. You have my word that I will do my best to fend off any snarling attacks on my manboobs. No one ever said that there wouldn't a price to be paid. But I just did. Sue me.

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The Truth Speaks for Itself.

 

No one here believes that if a person hides in their bed from an expert prevaricator, anyone will be better off for having made up, and played down, a curious round of circular bannerisms. For, what would it get you, if, on alternate second days, only a grim willingness to enfold a stranger in a sheer night-tail could help us determine at what time or place an involuntary meditation would be in order? She helped each us to calmly approach the newly-minted Associate Rector and describe the appearance of his eyes to the recently released. For them, the strain of particularity is needlessly acute. Our only oily statue is the one they yearn to encrust. The flavor of the matter does not ever escape the co-efficient of paralegic thrust powder. This is why we caution all serious newcomers to wipe their friends beneath a corner of our ranked outfit threnody. You have this.

We have been given to understand that the way the fabric lays upon this or that unidentified box-like subject could set the scene for a rival occurrence. Why is it that some people seek to have us believe otherwise? They would be better suited to be placed on a stage where no staircase is in the offing. However, if they cling, one and all, to a sedimental bookstall and think nothing of memorializing the warping of time in the company of intractable plotters, then why should we not just assume that any of their spouses count in the long run? It doesn't get any easier if you look through my folio, sigh in disgust and then parcel out meager trinklets to a group of moribund abplanaps. Any sign of emotional distress is something we need to argue about in a way which is remarkably friction-free. In other words, why does it always come down to you staring at a person standing near a guardrail who, for some not-so-funny reason, continues to behave so pompously? It is not now, nor has it ever been, my purpose to observe how you interact with otherwise non-ordinary haus-fraus. It couldn't be easier if you licked your own tongue.

My own genuine mailer, seen from behind, doesn't get much better than the strain we've endured for the last five or six seconds, if that. On the other hand, someone who once prayed in our neighbor's church, is, even now, circling the globe on a mission of misbegotten revenge. He claims that one of my oldest suppliers has lied about the nature of his appearance at a desk in an office on a not-very-busy thoroughfare in this or that medium sized city. A city of one, if you ask me. The likelihood that the progeny of well-to-do defilers would think twice about waltzing through a train wreck smelling like a rose, often gives one pause when filling out the requisite forms in a vain effort to prevent even minor slippage. The car you inscribe today could be the barn you destroy tomorrow. It's a choice which everyone must one day make. The problem, though, is how to fit a mundane story line into a rampant metric plattern without one and all seeking, above anything else, to dodge an incontinent thread. If it hurts to process an inelegant ancestor, just imagine what it cost the remaining horticulturist to entertain a ribald assortment of petty misfits without even one roll in the oven. (Clue: there IS no oven)

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The Mystery of Placement.

 

Excuse me, but I'm still not sure how I got into this place. It seems one of the younger members had called his Dad in the wee hours of a morning not very much like this one at all. I'd seen the man grasping at legends in hopes that one of us would make a move to forestall a victory speech in the name of rising signs of non-specific terminals in our very midst. He pleaded with me not to tell the boy about our time in the Service and I, in turn, made it quite clear that one of us would be well advised to make an illegal copy of a moribund instructional tape-delay system. This is where both of us made a good-faith effort to cross every 'I' and dot each lackadaisical 'T' before things got out of hand. One time, as I escorted a group of disoriented shepherds across a distinctly underwhelming span, I was struck by how much I really needed to organize a circulation event during the aftermath of one of our high-brow affairs. Because, after all, what can they really do to you if you decide to suit up in a trim-waisted caftan and install a threadbare jackigan inside each homeowner's dooly pan? Not much, if the reigning experts are to be believed.

So, as I'm still of two minds about where a helping hand might be abjured, especially in this God-forsaken edifice, there doesn't seem too much choice but to enter a darkened room and whisper secret formulae into an inert squallbox and wait with all due contrition for the next episode in our ongoing series of mind-numbingly boring advisory codicils. When I've asked around, and seen the reaction to the pleas of a forlorn young gymnast from the provinces, I'm reminded of the time, not too long ago, if I'm being honest (I'm not), when all you had to do was poke a mirror around this or that corner and wait for the sound to steadily build. Until then, you'd be left looking through the oldest shift letters imaginable. At which time, the only choice would be to go straight to the police, make a false confession and hope for the best. In the event that a person wearing a peculiar headdress came up with a bone-headed scheme to transfer you, lock, stock and barrel, into a segmented compound, only then would you be eligible for recompense from a duly authorized gantry stub.

Now, I know this all sounds like a lot to take in, especially on such short notice. But, you have to believe me when I say that one of my fondest memories while growing up on the Southern Rim was to see if I could hook up a dyspeptic branch manager with an isotypically fragile ragamuffin just to see the effect on jerry-built hindrances the world over. The pain it caused my collaborators was more than worth the effort it took to wrap a stained cloth around an RF-controlled bantry pump. If ever you find yourself confronted by a room full of angry caretakers, and have a hard time determining which way to turn, you could do a lot worse than to chafe the cuffs of a delapidary coroner while casing a nearby schoolhouse for one-of-a-kind stock chiselers. A word to the weary is still a worm to the wise by any other name. Thus sayeth the Lard. Ahk-meng.

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Patterned Relapse Flagship.

 

Before I had decided to have my feet strengthened, there were only so many partnerships inside of which I could insinuate myself without folks on the outside starting to come to their senses, in more ways than one, if I'm being honest. On the off chance that you may have been spared the bad news, I'm always ready, able and willing to give you the lowdown, without which you may find yourself three sheets to the wind in a half an hour or less. When you begin to intrude on the comings and goings of innocent bystanders the world over, a person in need of a directed energy weapon can sometimes be found in the lounge area of a non-descript old factory zone. On the other hand, what gives you (or anyone of your ilk) a fighting chance to make good on an ancillary promise to an insensitive probation officer? The thing about people in a training loop is that you can sometimes spot them play-acting in a fishy manner in a matter of seconds, if that. I count myself among the lucky ones. Until then, don't be surprised to find that I've managed to worm my way in to a broken field hockey colony. They say that 'everyone does it'. I beg to differ. Don't fart.

You see, there's a standard size duplication device at my beck and call in the waning seconds just before dawn pokes its ugly head through a shaft in a town near you. Those are the times when we enjoy getting together with old friends and reliving all sorts of ancestral disputes on the big screen. I'm generally the one who plays Tincup Harvey. My wife, Tina Hoskins, does double duty as both Catherine the Great and Irma Fletcher of 'Whiz Kidz' fame. They say that culture begins at home. I couldn't disagree more. But, if some of the stolen materials strike my fancy, and I can cadge a ride to the office, sometimes there won't be anyone left to bang on a collection of tuned rods and make like a 'fancy boy' writ large. Unfortunately, that's not what most people pay us for. Far from it, in fact. If I had to guess, I'd say that somewhere in your past there lurks an ugly rumor to the effect that in your younger days people got the wrong idea if you so much as crouched in a corner while others stood gamely by in an effort to appear more approachable by half. I wouldn't be shocked to learn that you once exhibited an attitude which most regarded as 'headstrong' in the extreme. Does this help me regard you as an even bigger threat to the sanctity of my marriage?  Yes, yes and yes. (No.)

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Real-Estate Woes.

 

I've asked my adult-sized daughter to be on the alert for any hint that people are undermining a national sleep project on the grounds of a Tudor style unit which we've had a heck of a time unloading. It comes all marked up. Even the tatters are well suited to a fully grounded blood-type cohort. My First Deputy Violints Section Controller has rolled some logs up a hill and then gone on to see them donated to homeless families in the greater Newark, NJ area. It's not for nothing that he was given a prize just last year in recognition of his serious derogation. Only by the actions of a de-frocked provider was he able to grab some additional pills from an unattended register. No one is laughing anymore. Least of all some of our people on the ground. It just strikes us as very sad how, when you try to deliver a non-obvious consignment, it's more often than not translated into a third language. No one has the right to give someone the time of day and then retreat suddenly without explanation into a secret fort. What are they, twelve years old or something?

We've been living with an ironclad dis-impunity for years now. I see the way she walks in the local greenery and wonder why I never thought of that. In the meantime, it's the folks who, during daylight hours, use my bedroom as a temporary office, that I'm having trouble resolving serious boundary issues with. It's not enough that they've asked me more than once to take an interest in a terrible meal planning site, but now, everyone and his brother is saying that my hands, clothing choices, hair style and preferred vehicle mark me as someone of limited utility. When I catch the taller one rooting around my collection of collegiate sweaters looking for illicit disturbances, then I'll know that I'm not alone in this fight. The shorter one stays after class most nights and politely pleads for maybe a scrap of waffle or something. I already know that the boy's parents have vandalized a local synagogue. What I need to know now is how to translate my concerns so that those in the upper rungs of the industry will investigate an obese money manager named Scott Loomis.

The vacation home we've been promised comes tricked out with all the latest appurtenances. There's lo-boy rider on the electric toothcomb. Even the lip of the sunken dairy-pad is detailed with onyx derivatives. Each primping station has its own timer to facilitate candid dialogue among hirsute resuscitation theorists. The First Gentleman has made it plain that he no longer intends to forestall a lapyroscopic clamping procedure. I myself gave it a go just last week, and you know what? Exactly! And what's more, there's a certain specialized knowledge just now emerging with even the vaguest hint of hypnopompic dread. I don't know about you, but I regard that as a 'win-win' proposition. Furthermore, if anyone feels in any way 'saddled' by addtional infirmary beauties, maybe they could try holding one of the witnesses under the surface for just a bit longer. At least until a promise to 'make good' is delivered with full frontal nudity, if that. What I want to know is: just why hasn't anyone thought of this before? That's a good guess. Did you come up with that all on your own?

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The Selection Process Explained.

 

I've restricted myself to picking three out of a group of seven original path members to elevate beyond any expectation of internal deceit. They've seen their limit on the packing crew and now there's no alternative but to look through their things to find the one piece which could save us all a lot of time in the sack. On first appearance, each of them offers me the use of a time-tested mechanism for holding others to a secret, yet corentic, agreement. On second thought, it's plain that we'd all profit more from a short period of investigative clips, projected at maximum volume, to see if a director's cut made it through without any fuss at all. At the conclusion of my opening remarks, all but one stands inches away from a small pool of water by the side of a road in a park at the rear of a school shed of some note. I'd like to tell you that I still haven't been charged with anything, but that wouldn't be accurate.

Every time I call out one of the names I've been given, out of respect for the fallen, one of them will, at a crucial interval, wipe his or her eyes with a monogrammed hankie. I'm beginning to think that I need to have a 'little talk' with some of the younger people to get their input for the duration of the conflict. Some will say that I leaned over too far. Others will disturb a months-long silent retreat which began in the late 2010s. In any event, no one should ever doubt my resolve when it comes to jacking people around. It comes with the territory, but I'm not one to get my panties in a snit just to satisfy the cravings of a Junior Pantry Officer and his officious dimwit of an Executive Assistant, with all that implies.

When I notice an oily discharge coming my way at the direction of the one who always seemed to be my prime accomplice, it occurs to me that I still haven't asked my wife when we're expected at the club tonight—of all nights! Once I get to my feet, I'm just barely convinced that I've got some of the younger ones at my beck and call. This, however, doesn't ring true since it's far from certain that they're seasoned operators. I pick one at random and ask him quite bluntly if he would mind too terribly if I was extremely blunt. He takes to it like a fly on rice, spits in my eye and is out like a light. In the interim, it's very important that everyone be aware that I greatly enjoy posing in a very 'special' kind of light while attired in casual outfits. These are the  kind of bums I have to deal with. They never get tired of yanking my chain to see what gives. And I never get tired of meeting them half way so that we can work this new bit into our routine. Is that so wrong or, am I just being petty? Please move over.

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Online Dating Tutorial: Part 3.7

 

There's a woman I met online a minute or two ago. Her hair intrigues me in a way that I find hard to explain. Whenever I find myself blindly wandering down blind alleys, just for the fun of it, I try to think about what I'd do if I found out that hair like that was just a 'trick of light', or even that I may have fallen for the oldest trick in the book. While hosing down to prepare for some quality time in the pen, out of nowhere something will rear its ugly head. For all I know someone's been playing me like a cheap camera. On the other hand, why is it so dark outside in the middle of an otherwise ordinary day? If I had to guess, I'd say that a collective mood disorder could have something to do with it. In my left hand I hold a cheap, and, if I'm being honest, a somewhat paltry diadem. It's engraved with a Gold's character reference which no one gets, or so I'm told. It could explain the hold she's had on me since we were kids back in the late 80s. If not, you'd have to check with my brother, Phil Lewis. He often has some very timely (and telling) answers. No one ever said it'd be easy to demand a fresh-soaked print from your typical handler's insolvency framework carousel.

The first time I crossed state lines to get directly up in her face, she'd made a firm decision to re-enact a scene from a movie which held a lot of memories not only for her, but for some others in her type of predicament, or even pickle. It wasn't of any use for me to try to guess her name from her maddeningly popular hair style alone. Alone among all the others, her strength made her hard to ignore when the chips were down. Otherwise, she seemed capable of conducting daily activities without so much as a chip on her stiff upper lip. When I told her on a break between scenes that I'd never gotten a vasectomy, she took it in stride and practically fell over herself trying to get a snapshot in case our first date turned out to also be our last. I was of a mind to politely ask her to please 'pipe down'. On a hillside, it was always apparent that even though we had nothing in common, our agreement on basic principles was strictly Grade A. When her Mother eventually approached my Pastor on the day after her body was found, it appeared that she was mistaken about my ongoing interest in underwater civilizations. In short, she thought it was all some kind of ruse to inspire sympathy from the cheap seats in the back. What she didn't know (and most likely never will), is that I just don't operate that way. Never have. Never will.

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Family Issues.

 

It's quite plain that my wife has given up the one opportunity that could have shelved some of the skeletons which she so boldly hides from the prying eyes of yours truly. I've had my issues going forward, but, if my back is neither against a wall nor up a tree, what is it exactly that you would have me do? I know by the sounds she makes as we approach a distant hardware emporium that it's all she can do to remain upright while I engage the manager in some harmless repartee. It's gotten to the point where, if a person shares an extra portion of spongecake with a disgraced surgeon, she acts like someone scorned in the interest of quieter streets during Holiday marching periods. Anyone in my position would be the first one to hijack an airliner full of school children and insist that they form a bond with a token majority-minority inquest survivor. But no, you'll find none of that here.

What is it about people who scope out our non-obvious pitfalls which makes them appear too small by half? It's come to my attention that some kind of material is flaking directly within sight of an over indulged eager-beaver. This is the type of person who once took me to the cleaners just to show me the surprising effect of day-old foam on worn-out material. I know that this will give a boost to some of the 'shadow boys', but still I insist on seeking recommendations about where to send our son for hairdressing lessons. He's a great athlete with a heart of gold and has a knack for treating back pain in returning veterans. The fact is, though, he still doesn't seem interested in water purification problem areas. When I get my hands on the person who set him up to take the fall, I plan on 'going to ground', biding my time, and then leaping out at the last second before anyone has a chance to befall me with a test of my basic tolerance.

Only one motive makes any sense when you try to put the pieces together. Even though the sides match, the tops and bottoms couldn't be more different if they tried. And yes, once in a while they do, in fact, try that very operation. I usually stand near a cottonate border, wire-gun in hand, ready to press some latches in case any of the kids try to come up for air. The astronomical fees only compound our enjoyment when a semi-clad bigamist takes the stage and orders everyone to flee the premises immediately. By the time my lotion has worn off completely, most seem to agree that I seem like a different person than the one who got up this morning, made coffee, scanned the paper, did some chores, got married, read the Bible, blew a load, took origami lessons, injured his hand in a baking accident, called up Paul Strauss CPA for tax advice, began a Homeland Security investigation, had lunch at the Club, took a nap, participated in a botched car-jacking and then watched the game until dinner was ready.

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Love Is In The Air!

 

Everyone is just so lovey-dovey around here! I can barely catch my breath for all the times I've had to move into another shelter by the lake. The water quality seems pure enough to the taste, but, once I've gone for more than four hours, it's only fair that I pull over and let some of the younger ones retrieve small baskets of sand-like material from the Roundhouse Pavilion. This has a good chance of keeping us up to our necks in age-old wisdom necklaces. Never a good thing to appear in a place with a serious mercury bomb problem. I've tried to teach them how to operate a low bandwidth application, while the other hand is held stationary as an incriminating picture is passed to and fro. One of us believes that it won't be for another two or three months before my kettledrum is fit for insertion into a foulmouthed charity scenario. I couldn't disagree more. In fact, I've made it my 'call to infamy' to lie in wait near one of the local war memorials just to see who might think it wise to unfurl non-ordinary bunting in the event of an impromptu all-clear signal from down the way.

My very first victim always made it a practice to skip junior varsity in favor of learning to operate a transition scope on the eve of our final announcement. I couldn't help but think twice when all our chefs had to do wasn't written in any book with which I have even the barest of foundational acquaintanceship. I still find it somewhat shocking that the 'girl of my dreams' turned out to be the butt of a joke which was making the rounds on the third shift. I certainly could consume my daily quotient of soft pellets, but, by the time my Dad took out the garbage most of the dry land had all but disappeared. He was never seen again. That was due to a boating accident which caused my premature blindness when I was in the second grade. If we can make sure the tips of the poles form a straight line on the barrelhead, then it's quite plain that anyone who remains underfunded can count on only one thing to keep them tied up in court for years. And, just who do you think is counting, anyway? Your cousin? Please! 

 

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A Place Like No Other.

 

It's a place which sports very colorful bags with their legend boldly displayed. We found ourselves there seeking shelter from a certain kind of moisture. I stared at my companion's shoulder. He seemed frustrated by my lack of superstitious ideas. I knew that many people were afraid of his startle reflex. Several of our co-workers have been injured. He seemed to take pride in his ability to shout out some very tricky design parameters. I retreated to the rear where coffee was waiting. To say that I hadn't had my fill just wouldn't be right. Because, up until that very moment, no one had thought to ask about my wife's hysterectomy. They made a concerted effort to conceal their suspicions when my conduct came up for grabs. I took all of them shopping and then swimming. We had a ball.

Back at the house, some of them were kind of 'put off' by my reliance on the efforts of a retired bailiff. He'd been at my beck and call for only a few seconds when my assistant took cover due to something she claimed to have seen on the back his head. From her testimony, later corroborated by the next of kin, the mild discoloration seemed to diminish in size from one moment to the next, until it was all but unnoticeable to a neurologically 'normal' adult. I'd like to add my two cents here, but, due to the sensitivity of the circumstances of the motion under review, it would make more sense in the long run to allow the process to play out.

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Postscript: A word to the wise!

The girls in our society lounge collective are beginning to have second thoughts. A person who once sent me a demo tape has caused them not a little consternation. On any given day, he might wander through one of their meetings, hat in hand, looking for all the world like an adult orphan of the old school. Some of us are aware that this could not be further from the truth. He's a very savvy operator. I used to trust him to ferry my son to his piano lesson after choir practice. The night he was spotted in the company of a known individual put a stop to all that. Still though, I can't help feeling that he's gotten a raw deal. Something has got to give. I'll do all I can on my end to insure a faithful duplication of our efforts when it comes to handling major loads. There's a 53-05 waiting just to the right of our side door for the party which will guarantee that no one will be allowed to perform without a strict adherence to some of our sillier guideposts.

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The Devastating News About My Sister.

 

My sister, Wimarba Loomis, has had a heck of a time reaching across an ever widening gulf of taste, ideology and even morning routines, all in an effort to beat back an avalanche of uncouth mountebanks who descend on her place of residence days, nights, weekends, you name it. And, while you're at it, does it strike you as passing strange that no one ever took the time to look into a trade dispute just now heating up in the Andapalpin Seacoast combombulatories? Because anyone who knows a thing or two about likes and dislikes among the recently re-insured will have no problem speaking up when all those around them have decided to 'spice things up' and proceed to a gavel match to shame the other psychophants in their midst. I myself am painfully aware of a nasty tug-of-war between two groups of shell-shocked identitarians who seem to like nothing more than to shift blame onto an innocent, if precocious, six year-old ragamuffin who splits his time between the Chicago suburbs and the Greater Fort Worth area. As recently as five seconds ago, I received a chipped party-mug in the mail as part of a stunningly deceitful 'getting-to-know-you' effort on the part of the Ike Strassman for Mayor '96 campaign and its assorted hangers on.

Excuse me, but, am I the first to notice a definite chilling of the atmosphere when it comes to like-minded people meeting in secret to engineer the reputational destruction of owner-operators the world over? Because, if so, I can only hope that one day very soon your time will come and the taste of cold steel tooth deferment is one with which you become remotely familiar, if that. As the Lesbian crooner Barbara Lundin once told me in a hushed aside at the laying of a nougat-colored foundation stone at a now obsolete convention center, we are the very ones that the young-at-heart have come, through no fault of their own, to trust with the evacuation of their extended families in the event of a county-wide occurrence. And, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't wish that on my most flagrant violator, all things being equal. But plainly, on this side of the tracks, you can be forgiven for not attending a hidebound strategy session but apparently, not for walking through a public building for the most pitiful of reasons. Try that one on for size, why don't you. I'm waiting. Well?

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She Swears She's Telling the Truth.

 

Yes, according to her, she made a 'good faith' effort to sleep, but a mild swelling indicated the ingestion of domestic particles. Anyone who had hoped to school her in a complex rotation gambit, from what little bit we've been able to discover, has been forced to vacate a deepening sense of 'mission creep'. It's not like the others to bandy about unfamiliar names without the will to back it up. I know that certain persons studied the prospects and then decided to give in to an unnatural impulse or two. As ever, I find myself to be thoroughly comfortable with the requirement to remain suspicious, vigilant, relaxed and very subtly pompous. I told her myself not to pretend to be impressed by another candidate's ease with common vulgarity. She looked at me with the wide eyes of someone easily dismissed. I needled her about getting involved in a prematurely senescent industrial sector. By all means, go ahead. I won't be long.

By now, we will have dashed through a sub-lingual Laramie broadcast. There's even a good chance that one of the goons who you've witnessed crashing a not-very-interesting get-together, will be found to have at one time played a 'bad guy' on a little heard podcast back in the late '60s. His name is Virgil Conners. He graduated from the Easton Industrial School in 1993. He went on to take an interest in manufacturing votive emotional atmospheres on a mass scale. From the looks of it, he's wised up considerably from when he used to place damp pieces of felt under people's front doors in the dead of night. No one ever served any time, but that didn't stop my niece from making bold with an occult lighting effect. From the way she looked at him through the window of an all but forgotten pet food emporium, you'd think that she'd once let on that she hadn't, in fact, slammed a car door during an altercation on June 9, 2011 at 6:19 PM outside Kelso's Market, located at 591 DuKane Blvd. in Reno, Nevada 67504.

From the dimensions of the stain which appeared quite mysteriously on the fabric liner of an onyx flavored jewelry cabinet in my Lake Superior bungalow not three weeks ago, anyone still paying attention would have a hard time believing that I prefer to take my time deciding on any given evening's TV viewing schedule. It comes from growing up during the volatile post-3/16 period when all anyone wanted to talk about was a certain ringing sound heard during minor disputes with respect to vague appearance issues in the Nation's sprawling mid-section. I'd usually try to find a neutral vagabond to hold a cup near a hole in a bolstered wall unit while I went around in front to look through people's things as they tried, usually unsuccessfully, to patch things up big time. Once I reserved a place for my dimensionally challenged younger brother in the Fitzsimmons County Junior Fuzzball League, I became unaccountably morose at the prospect of spending the better part of an afternoon out on the Lake instead of taking cover behind a lopsided tree like in the 'old days'. However, this is small comfort when compared to the time I leafed through a briefing booklet in the company of a tanned and fit French Language instructress. And, just so you know, no one is under any illusions about the depth of your involvement in the cancellation of a Movement Therapy Unit at the Extension. Get over it.

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This Should Answer All of Your Concerns.

 

We trapped him inside a building in another city for his own good. This is what kept us from getting too deeply involved. When it came to constructing an alternative narrative, we were instructed to shove in a few 'cancer' words. My main Opinion Officer, Harlsbee Marniss, seems to enjoy grilling me incessantly. There are only a few more days until a stricken bargain goes into troubling effect. The way it feels when someone looks down on a cherished family relic just is not enough to repay my efforts to block unneeded development from scarring the countryside near a little used byway. By the way, does this seem like something you might enjoy? There are still spaces available and no one's arm will be twisted in a way which makes the least bit of difference. Which is why I called you before class today. Of all the days to have a dental appointment; this is how the nearside abjures its sentimental scripts.

It's not unusual to hear one of the lads groaning under the weight of historic paper tablets. These sit directly under my chair in the Near East Studies Department at Volgograd University. I am continually made to feel remotely uncomfortable due to the position it's been my pleasure to hold for a few seconds at best. At a more secular rebound, one of the complaints is that our showing can sometimes be a bit meager. Otherwise, if a person decides to invite a friend to a sanctioned affair, it's just not in our nature to see anything fundamentally wrong with that, unless precautions are taken seriously, if at all. A person who feels bound by law or tradition to follow at close remove could have only themselves to blame if some of the returnees feel pressured to exhibit even the tiniest bit of false enthusiasm. You take your bait where you find it. I'll do my best to act like someone with only the best of intentions. You're not fooling anyone. You know that, right?

When a more recent version is provided, no one should expect to find one of the caps still mired in place of an overwrought bargain tool. Even then, if a cane is used as an upbeat curricular aid, then a plain brown mulket should go a long way to insure compliance with a depicted redaction target. One of the names I've been given, off-hours at that, is one which gives the impression of a landlocked status to the person with whom I meet at most three times per annum. Anyone who likes can see the expression on his face when we pull up without notice near his place of business. If the worst ensues, a crowd of onlookers can be pressed into cleanup duty. It's my job to warn you about suspicious warheads gathering dust in your dining cabinet. This is not how we get things done. Instead, we wait with our spouses to see what they'll come up with next. Then we take delivery of an older version which our friends seem to trust much more. We will never stop feeding you false accounts. Could that be why you're not more upset?

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There's Just No Other Way to Put This!

 

I walked through a town yesterday. Before that, my wife offered both myself and my bodyguard a sip of water. Even though the day was kind of warm, we felt that refusing the offer could possibly put things in a new light. The vestments which are usually inserted diagonally between the window frame and a heavy cardboard seating ratchet, on this day were nowhere to be found. So, we decided to follow on with our normal course of activity and looked through the windows of some of our neighbors' vehicles in the hope that something might turn up. I gave her five minutes to light a fire under my butt, all the while knowing full well that she was still  diligently working on her figure. You've got to hand it to a broad like that. The only thing is, I see no reason to involve myself in useless debates about the upcoming election. This can only lead one place but my shirt just isn't dry yet.

Now that one of us has been apprised of an apparently terminal report, I am giving myself five days to complete a Program. If anyone thinks that they would enjoy seeing us let our hair down, I can promise that any future disappointment will be balanced by a Summary Judgment in the Lucas Knowles affair. Some of us know that any time you raise your voice, all we can do is sit quietly in our room and play for time. When I make a hand-off in a parking facility after hours on a rainy Wednesday night, the least you could do is follow my lead and evacuate a tower very close to your residence and pray to God that no one shows up without a license. If there's one thing that people in my boat are painfully aware of, it's how many years it takes to build up a feeling of genuine good will in the community writ large. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to get into it with you. If you want a knock-down-drag-out, I'm just not your guy. Sorry.

Unless I've got my signals crossed, there will be a payment disguised as an in-kind offer. Each floor reveals its secrets on a case-by-case basis. An urn will occupy its pride of place at the center of the Atrium. My daughter, Jennifer Wilcox, should be home from school by the time we get started. I know that any kind of 'feel-good' remedy can only be revealed on the night of the 16th. After that, one of my oldest frauds is expected to exert its benign influence on foreign factions in Our Nation's Capital. They have promised me in an invisible recording that any molten substance not taking up space on the far side of our Activity Shed can be safely sloughed off in preparation for a damaged individual mounting a rostrum and inhaling from a vial of deracinated cough chips. By this time, I'll pull around in front and, if you can sneak in before a flotilla of evidence is unveiled, I'll see to it that your cape is given a master treatment in the Obelisk. Would you, or anyone else for that matter, have it any other way? (asking for a friend)

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